My dreams are full of the same things.
Winding roads that lead from town to an old familiar spot in the woods.
Rivers or streams that cut into the earth alongside our path,
sometimes under because we are soaring.
Always, there is water and we don’t like to feel so small in the lakes or oceans where
we can’t even fathom a depth but we know SOMETHING is down there.
We don’t talk about the time that SOMETHING grabbed our ankle, pulled us slowly and silently down, down, down….
and we knew we were dying while the light shrank to darkness
but not even bubbles came out when we opened our mouths to scream.
The real terror was that everything was just so calm and quiet.
We seem to be always travelling for a reason that evades exact definition.
Urgency usually prevails and sometimes it’s not only urgent, but a panic.
It seems that always we are DOING, always trying.
Elevators are stuck,
or they are not and we’re up and down the levels
of a building that is a hotel with a pool, a school, a house for haunting or all three.
And we’ve always been there before, even if we haven’t.
Playgrounds of my home town
in my dreams, they are empty,
but still there,
in all the places they’re supposed to be
and hadn’t ever been.
And always, there is more than just me.
I am never alone.
There is always we.